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Ilya is sad. It’s all Shane can think about.
Of course, Shane knows depression isn’t the same as sadness. But he can’t think of another way to describe Ilya today. Ilya’s eyes are sad when he blinks them open at the alarm. His slumped shoulders are sad as he trudges downstairs for breakfast. The quiet, self-loathing remarks when he tells Shane to go to today’s optional practice alone are worse.
On the ice, Shane lets his body take over and do the work while his mind replays that morning on a loop. He’s seen Ilya have bad days, of course, since the very beginning, and especially last season before Shane moved to Ottawa. But it had been a high-stress time, a lot of muddled emotions overwhelming both of them. Shane has never seen Ilya like this morning, lethargic and barely able to get up.
He wonders how often it happened in the past, when he should have been there with Ilya but wasn’t.
All throughout practice and on the way home, Shane tries, desperately, to think of something to do to make it better. He’s going to go home and hold Ilya and be with him. There is no question about that. But is it all Ilya needs? Is it all Shane can do to help?
He stops at a red light and his thoughts drift to all the things Ilya does whenever Shane starts to freak out about something. Ilya will be there, warm and strong and solid. Will make space for Shane’s feelings, every time. Every day, really. But he’ll also make jokes, the kind that make Shane roll his eyes and pull out of whatever spiral he’s in.
His eyes wander along the shops near the crossing he’s waiting at. Ilya’s favourite pet store is there. They have dog snacks, and leashes, and little outfits like the boots Ilya got for Anya. All sorts of things.
The sound of car horns beeping behind him jolts him out of his thoughts. The light turned green, he’s late taking his foot off the brake. It takes him a moment to concentrate, to take a deep breath. Then he pulls into the next parking space he spots, and heads for the pet store.
Shane gets home much later than intended. After the pet store, he stopped by a restaurant Ilya likes for dessert, and by the farmer’s market for nice dinner ingredients. He also made some impulse purchases at an artisan’s stall. He’s slightly regretting it now, but he’s doing this for Ilya, so he’s going to persevere.
There’s no sight of Ilya downstairs. Shane opens the bedroom door and finds Ilya and Anya napping together on the bed. He noiselessly pulls the door shut and goes back downstairs to prepare dinner.
The good thing about Ilya being asleep is that he isn’t there for Shane having a meltdown over trying to cook chicken parmesan. It’s not like Shane can’t cook, it’s just that this is a high-stakes situation with no room for mistakes. And it’s only been one summer since he’s stopped living off what everyone else in his life so charmingly refers to as bird food.
He calls his dad for help, who is infuriatingly calm about the whole thing, saying, “You’re a good cook, son, you’re going to do a great job.”
“I’ve eaten breaded food maybe twice in the last half a decade, Dad! I have no fucking clue what I’m doing!” Shane paces back and forth in front of the stove.
“Shane, there’s no need to swear,” his mom chides from the background.
Shane sighs. “Please, guys,” he says. “This needs to be perfect.”
“Is Ilya okay, Shane?” his mom asks.
Shane stops and blinks down at the sizzling pan. “I – he will be. I’m making sure.”
“We know you are,” his dad says. “Is the chicken golden-brown on both sides?”
“Yeah,” Shane says. He feels embarrassingly close to tears. “I guess. But not as much as when you make it, or at the restaurant I liked at home. I mean, in Montreal.”
“That’s perfect,” his dad says. “It will finish cooking in the oven. Now take it out of the pan and put it in the casserole dish. Just put the sauce and cheese on top and then put it in the oven once it’s finished pre-heating.”
Shane follows the instructions carefully. He releases a long breath once he’s closed the oven door. He feels disgustingly sweaty, and his heartbeat is all jittery. But he did it. He is making Ilya’s favourite, unhealthy food.
He says goodbye to his parents and opens a beer. He’s fucking earned that, and there’s no game tomorrow.
Shortly after Shane takes the chicken out of the oven, he hears Ilya’s footsteps on the stairs. A moment later Ilya joins him in the kitchen, carrying Anya in his arms. Ilya is shirtless, barefoot, wearing sweatpants low on his hips. Normally Shane would already be on him, but Ilya’s eyes are swollen and tired, and his shoulders slumped. He’s clinging Anya against his heart like he can’t bear to let her go for a minute.
“I made you chicken parmesan,” Shane says. “And for dessert I brought medovik from the place you like.”
Ilya bursts into tears.
“Oh, fuck, baby,” Shane says, rushing towards Ilya and hugging him.
Anya shuffles around between them. Shane carefully takes her from Ilya’s arms, scratches her head, and puts her on the floor where she starts brushing up against Ilya’s shins.
“What’s wrong?” Shane asks. “God, I’m so sorry, did something happen? I should have stayed home with you, I’m so sorry, baby.”
Ilya shakes his head, still crying. “I can’t eat.”
“Did the pills make you sick?”
That hasn’t happened since the very beginning. Surely, if it’s starting up again, that means something is wrong. Maybe Shane should call Terry right -
“No,” Ilya says, sounding wrecked. “I just – I can’t, Shane, I’m so sorry. No – fuck, what is it? Appetite. No appetite today.”
“That’s okay,” Shane says. “It’s totally fine, you don’t have to eat. Maybe I can make you some tea?”
“But you made all this food,” Ilya says. Tears are dripping down his chin onto his chest. Shane wipes them away. “You cooked all this, and bought dessert -”
“It’ll keep. It’ll all keep, Ilya.”
“It will go soggy,” Ilya says, rubbing his eyes.
“Oh, baby,” Shane says. He feels so useless, completely lost as to how to make things better. He doesn’t let himself cry, though. “Baby, it’s okay. It doesn’t matter. I only made it in case you wanted something.”
“We should be cooking together,” Ilya cries. “I should not have been sleeping.”
“Ilya, baby, please,” Shane says. He threads his fingers through Ilya’s curls, tugging firmly to ground him. “Please don’t apologise.”
“Why am I crying?” Ilya hiccups. “So stupid.”
“You’re still getting used to the higher dose,” Shane tells him. “Terry said it was normal, remember?”
“Is so annoying,” Ilya sighs wetly. He’s no longer sobbing, though.
Shane kisses his forehead. He isn’t sure what to say or do, how to help. When Ilya had started the pills, he’d had moments of being terrified of the numbness they’d make him feel. Terry has gradually adjusted the dose upwards over the last few months, and reassured them at Ilya’s last appointment that the emotional peaks and troughs should even out soon. Shane hadn’t been too happy with the should of it all.
“I have something for you,” Shane whispers. “A present.”
“Is it sexy?” Ilya whispers. “Shane, I love you, but tonight I do not think I want – I’m very tired -”
“Baby, no, it’s okay,” Shane says. “It’s nothing like that. Let me get it, hold on.” He grabs the bags he brought home, and first pulls out the strawberry-shaped hat he bought for Anya at the pet store.
“This is very small hat,” Ilya says, turning it over in his hands.
“It’s for Anya,” Shane says. “I saw it in the shop window – you said you thought the sweater would have been cute for her but was too warm, so I thought -”
“Is like a strawberry,” Ilya says, perking up now.
“Yeah, exactly,” Shane says. “I thought you would like it for her.”
“I like it,” Ilya says. “It’s perfect. Wait.” He picks up Anya and hands her to Shane to hold while he puts the hat on her. Anya remains unimpressed, but Ilya’s eyes brighten. “Look, Shane,” he says almost reverently. “How adorable. This is perfect. Thank you.”
“It’s nothing, I just thought -”
Ilya darts forward and kisses Shane quickly. “Is incredible. You did not have to do this. You could just hold me and be with me, and I would feel better.”
“Well, then I have bad news for you,” Shane says. “I’m not finished yet.”
“No?”
“No.” Shane gets the bag from the stall at which a girl sold knitted hats at the market. He shoves it into Ilya’s hands, feeling his face flush. What a stupid thing to buy.
Ilya pulls out the two hats, knitted toques that look like strawberries. “Shane.”
“I – I – yeah.”
“These are for us? To match Anya?”
“Um. Yes. That’s what – yeah.”
“Oh,” Ilya says. He wipes the back of his hands across his eyes. “Shane. Sweetheart.”
“It was just a – I was getting the groceries – I know it’s stupid -”
“Is perfect. You have to put it on.”
“What? We’re inside.” Though actually, wearing it inside is definitely preferable to wearing it out on the street where people could see.
“I want you to put it on.”
“Ilya.”
“Shane.”
Shane squirms.
Ilya grabs Shane’s face, squishing his cheeks. “I am depressed. You can cure me by putting on the hat. Galina will be so jealous that you fixed me so easily.”
“That’s not how that works, asshole,” Shane says. He grimaces, but he does put on the hat. “I probably look ridiculous.”
“Yes,” Ilya says. The corners of his mouth are pulling up into the beginning of a smile.
Oh god, Shane is going to be buying more stupid hats. They had lemon ones at the stall he purchased from today, too. Maybe he and Ilya and Anya could go on a little day trip to the market next weekend and buy some. Maybe Shane can ask Jackie to crochet a lemon hat for Anya as well.
Ilya would love that, probably, because Ilya has so much love for everything in his life. Shane wants to find a way to scoop it up on good days, conserve it, and give it back to Ilya on the bad days.
He crawls into Ilya’s lap, wrapping his arms tightly around him. “Love you.”
Ilya cradles him automatically, and Shane’s heart skips a beat. He pushes even closer, attempting to squeeze the air out of the spaces in between them, nudging up the hem of Ilya’s shirt to feel the warmth of his skin.
Ilya is nosing at the soft spot underneath Shane’s ear, breathing him in. “I love you so much, Shane. Thank you.”
Ilya presses warm, wet kisses along Shane’s neck. After a few moments, the kisses get even wetter and those are tears and Ilya is sniffling and, fuck, Shane made Ilya cry again.
“Baby,” Shane breathes.
“I am okay.” Ilya’s voice is muffled against Shane’s skin.
“Are you, though? Please tell me the truth.”
A pained groan seems to wrench itself free from somewhere deep inside Ilya’s chest. “Maybe not completely okay. Maybe, I worry it’s not okay enough to be fixed.”
“And are you – how bad -”
Ilya backs away a little, pulling Shane’s head down to lean their foreheads together. “How could I want to die if I can see you in this hat every day?”
Shane flinches. He prefers putting it into words instead of talking around it, but he hates hearing it all the same. “Ilya, please – you’ll – you’ll tell me, right, you’ll talk to me if you ever -”
Ilya brings his hands up to cup Shane’s jaw. “I promise.”
Shane nods. “Okay. Okay.” His heart is still beating to fast, but this is the most he can ask for. It’s enough, for Ilya to trust him to talk to him if it ever gets that bad. So Shane hangs on tighter and whispers all the reassurances he knows.
They make it into bed, half-stripped, eventually. Ilya rolls Shane onto his side and presses close along his back. He’s gone soft and pliant, undoubtedly cried out.
Shane says, “Ilya? About what you said earlier?”
“Huh?”
“You don’t need fixing. You aren’t broken. Your brain just fucks you over on some days. Mine does, too, you know that.”
Ilya responds with a barrage of Russian, so fast and indistinct that Shane barely catches anything.
“I’m – baby, I’m sorry, I didn’t understand.”
Ilya shakes his head and presses kisses to Shane’s chest. “Nothing. All about how much I love you. You already understand this. You can feel it, I know.”
“I can,” Shane whispers.
He strokes Ilya’s face, slips two fingers into his mouth. Shane has never felt any desire to top Ilya, but he wonders if this is the need it satisfies for Ilya when they have sex – the sensation of having to be inside Shane, on some level that’s not merely physical. If there was any way Shane could, he’d crawl into Ilya’s skin right now and blanket him with his own body at the same time. It’s a confusing, wild sensation, different from his usual craving of having Ilya in him.
He wants to be clear before Ilya falls asleep. “I’m serious, though. I never feel like I want to fix you. I want to help you. I think that’s very different.”
“Maybe.” Ilya sounds exhausted, and far from sure.
“I think so, definitely.”
“Thank you,” Ilya says quietly. He hugs Shane tighter.
“I should shower,” Shane mumbles. “I was panic sweating earlier.”
Ilya burrows closer and takes an obnoxiously deep breath. “Sweaty Shane. My favourite smell.”
“Ew, don’t.”
Ilya licks Shane’s shoulder, right at the dip of his armpit. “You are wrong. Don’t say ew. Is my favourite, favourite thing. You work so hard.”
Shane has no fucking idea what to say to that. Leave it to his beautiful, sweet husband to make Shane feel loved for being gross and sweaty. He wishes he could make Ilya feel safe and happy as easily as Ilya does the same for him. Hopefully, Shane did an okay job of it today.
Ilya says, “You worked so hard and made me feel better.”
“Did I really? I wanted to be able to help at least a little.”
“You did, a lot,” Ilya says. “Like always.”
Shane clutches Ilya’s arms around his waist. “Is there anything you need before going to sleep? Anything else I can do?”
“Can you put on the hat again? I want to take picture.”
Shane is very aware that Ilya knows he can get anything he wants right now. When he half-turns to meet Ilya’s eyes, there’s a sparkle there that wasn’t there this morning. It’ll make immortalising Shane wearing this silly hat worth it.
He tries to slip out of bed, but Ilya’s arms hold tight around his waist. “No,” Ilya grumbles.
“Baby,” Shane says, smiling. He brushes back Ilya’s curls. “The hat’s with my clothes. If you want a picture you have to let go of me for a minute.”
Ilya sighs dramatically and lets him go. Shane is quick, pulling the hat from the heap of his clothes where he folded everything on the dresser, and slides back under the covers, into Ilya’s arms.
Ilya kisses him, takes the hat and puts it on Shane’s head.
He smiles, and Shane steals a kiss. “Happy?”
Ilya hums. “Picture now.”
“Unlock your phone for me, baby, yeah?”
Shane holds it up for Ilya to press his finger to the screen, and swipes into the camera app. Ilya nuzzles into the curve of Shane’s neck before burying his face there, hugging Shane from behind. Shane threads a hand into Ilya’s hair and takes a picture. He smiles against his will. He looks stupid, of course, shirtless in the strawberry hat. But Ilya’s shoulders are relaxed, his arms visibly holding Shane tight, his body curved around Shane’s. He presses a kiss into Ilya’s curls and accidentally hits the shutter button again.
“Let me see,” Ilya mumbles. His eyes are still closed.
“You have to open your eyes, baby,” Shane says, twisting a strand of Ilya’s hair around his finger.
Ilya groans but half-opens his eyes, reaching out for the phone. “Oh,” he breathes, looking at the picture.
The one Shane took last, by accident, shows Shane leaning down, face in Ilya’s hair, and Ilya pressing his lips against Shane’s skin.
Shane grabs the phone back and sets it as Ilya’s background. “There,” he says. “Now take your phone away from me before I think twice and erase all evidence of me ever wearing this.”
“Love you,” Ilya says, locking the phone and throwing it onto the armchair in the corner of the room.
“Love you, too,” Shane murmurs. “Now come here.”
It’s early to sleep, but Ilya is out like a light soon after snuggling into Shane’s chest.
Once he’s sound asleep, Shane carefully reaches for his own phone and messages Jackie about a lemon hat for Anya.
